not edgar allan poe

pull

I really fucking love you.

You set me on fire, electricity bouncing between the skin on your hands, and the skin under my shirt.

Love isn't tall, but neither is an espresso; you know I love the bitter over the overly-sweet, one false high to a real one.

I am a fly, caught in your web, not free, but not yet trapped in a casket of fine silk, ready for you to devour.

I thought poets were selfish, looking at me, then at you and your behavior; but I learned we both can't leave when a muse is so tempting.

Speak with such intensity that I can feel the waves washing over my skin, but nowhere near water; for it will put us both out.